The Agent Gambit (33 page)

The man jumped back, rolling, and came up with a length of metal pipe in his hand.

Val Con slid to the left, but the Juntava was quick and swept out with the pipe, keeping him from the door.

Val Con dove forward, parrying with the gun-but the pipe shifted, snaking sideways and twisting, and the gun spun out of nerveless fingers as he danced clear, his face stinging where jagged metal had sliced it.

The Juntava sensed the advantage of his longer reach and swung the pipe again. Reaction threw Val Con's left hand up to ward off the blow, crystal blade in his grip.

And his opponent leapt back, swearing, his advantage negated: The knife had shorn away nearly a third of his weapon.

SHE COULD SIT down
here
and pick them off all day long and far into the night.

As a tactician, Borg Tanser admired her for it. As force leader, he hated her for the three men dead at the mouth of her snug little hallway. There were other alternatives, of course. For example, they could just leave and evacuate the air from the wreck.

He considered the various angles to that and decided against. The bounty was higher-a lot higher-if she was delivered alive. If only he could come up with some way of luring her out of that damn cul-de-sac!

Suddenly Tanser froze, head snapping back toward the holding bays. The gunfire had stopped. He crept several feet down-corridor to be sure.

Silence. And no hail from the men he'd left to take out the boyfriend.

Dropping back to the mouth of the corridor, he spoke into the ear of his Second and moved off with rapid caution, gun at the ready.

THE MAN SCREAMED
as the blade sheared through the muscle and tendons of his upper arm, but he managed an awkward spin that sent him out of range and bought him time to take his weapon into his other hand.

Val Con flipped his blade, catching it by the point. It was not a throwing knife, but when one had no choice . . .

The explosion and the pain were simultaneous-he was spun half-around with the force of the blast. He loosed the blade at the man who stood, gun in hand, in the doorway, before blackness claimed him. He never felt the second blow as the pipe cracked across his skull.

MOREJANT STOOD OVER
the fallen boyfriend, pipe still at the ready, his arm bleeding badly. Tanser threw him a clamp from the kit on his belt.

"Where's Harris and Zell?"

"Dead." Morejant rasped, seeming loath to relinquish his guard over the figure on the floor. "Would've had me in another minute-sure glad you come along." He bent over the body, peering, then straightened and looked at Tanser.

"Boss, I think he's still breathing. You wanna finish 'im off?"

Tanser's attention was on the knife buried to the hilt in the steel wall two inches from his head. He levered it free and whistled softly: the crystal was unmarred, the edge unbroken. He thrust it in his belt.

"Boss?" Morejant repeated

"Naw." Tanser holstered his gun and came forward. Leaning over, he got a grip on the back of the boyfriend's collar and heaved him up to hang like a drowned kitten, blood dripping off the front of his shirt and pooling on the floor.

"Wrap yourself up," Tanser snapped at the staring Morejant, "and get a gun. We're gonna talk to the Sergeant."

THEY'D BEEN HANGING back
for the last fifteen minutes-still there, but out of range. Every so often one of them would lob a shot inside, just to see if she was awake, she guessed. She didn't bother returning the favor.

The lull in activity had given Miri the opportunity to reload her gun, check remaining ammo, and think deeply on the inadvisability of disobeying a superior officer, not to mention straying one step from her partner's side when it looked like they were in for a hot time.

None of these thoughts were particularly comforting, nor were they useful. She banished them and shifted position; her attention was abruptly claimed by a movement at the mouth of the corridor.

Miri raised her gun, waiting for the man to get into range. But all he did was heave the bundle he carried in his arms forward, so that it struck the floor and rolled, well inside her range.

She sat frozen, gun still steady on the figure at the mouth, eyes on the man who lay too still, legs and arms every which way, graceless.

No, she thought. Oh, no, Val Con, you can't be . . .

"Sergeant?" boomed the sitting duck at the top of the hall.

She did not raise her eyes. "What the hell do you want?" she asked, her voice flat with hatred.

"I just wanted to tell you, Sergeant, that he ain't dead yet. We'll fix that, though, if I don't see your gun and your belt tossed up here within thirty-five seconds."

She licked her lips. "How do I know he ain't dead now? Take
your
word for it?"

"That's your gamble, Sergeant, not mine. You got another fifteen seconds."

Jamming the safety up, she snapped to her feet and hurled the gun with all her strength.

It hit a foot short and skidded to a stop against Tanser's left boot. A moment later, belt and pouch repeated the maneuver.

Tanser laughed. "Temper, temper. Now, you just walk on out here like a good girl-real slow. Don't want you to trip and get yourself shot 'cause somebody thought you were tryin' something fancy. We lost five men between you and the boyfriend, Sergeant. Proud of yourself?"

"Hey," Miri said, stepping carefully over Val Con's body. Blood was a darker stain on the dark shirt; there was no way to know if he was breathing. "Everybody's got an off day now and then."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

TANSER HIMSELF FORMED
part of the guard that took her across to the Juntavas ship. With his own hands he shoved her into the holding cell and set the lock.

Miri made a quick circuit of the cell: metal platform welded to the wall, sanitary facilities stark in one corner, a panel that looked like a menuboard. She approached this, asked it for water, and was surprised when it provided a pitcherful, chips of ice circling lazily within. She drank deeply.

Suddenly the door slid open, admitting a gaunt man with a wrap of healtape around his right forearm, dragging a limp, dark figure by its collar.

The man hauled his burden inside, apparently oblivious to the trail of red in its wake, and dumped it at Miri's feet.

"Sorry, Sarge, but we only got this one cell, so you gotta share. Wouldn't fret too much though," he confided, "'cause like as not the boyfriend'll bleed to death pretty soon and you'll have the place to yourself again."

If he had hoped for a show of emotion, he was disappointed. Frowning, his eyes fell on the still, dark bundle and he drew back, aiming a kick at undefended ribs.

Her foot intercepted his, bootheel clipping ankle neatly and painfully. Morejant nearly fell, then caught himself and spun back to find her between him and the man on the floor, death in her eyes.

Snarling, he turned away to leave.

"Hey, hero."

"What?" He turned back, hackles rising at the look on her face.

She waved at the boyfriend. "What about a medkit? Happens I ain't in favor of my partner bleeding to death."

"Then strangle him," Morejant advised her. "Only one we
gotta
keep alive is you. Why haul more weight than we need?"

She shifted position and he jumped, scuttling through the door and slamming the lock in place.

THE TECH CLEARED
the malfunction inside of five minutes and went away with her fee in cash and a fifteen percent tip for a job well done.

No sooner had she gone than the bouncecomm chattered and whirred and lit up the green light that was Tanser's crew acknowledging receipt of the message.

Jefferson sighed and turned away, intent on soothing his frazzled nerves with a few swallows of local brew-and spun back, nerves fraying even more.

The bounce-comm chattered and rattled merrily, purple eye lit: Stand By For Message Incoming . . . .

"Borg?"

"Yah?" Tanser looked up from his meal to find Tommy holding out a sheet of hardcopy.

"Message from Jeff," the pilot said. "Just come in. Thought it might be hot."

Tanser put down his fork and took the sheet. "Thanks."

A minute later, he swore loudly and pushed back from the table, leaving the dining hall at a determined half-run.

IT WAS DARK
and cold and it hurt to breathe the air. It was bad air: he could feel the pain of it sliding in and out of his lungs like knives. He should stop; it was wrong to breathe such air. Yet another wrong added to a long list of them . . . .

Drifting there in the cold and dark, it seemed that he moved away from the necessity of air, for the pain receded somewhat. Drifting still more, he perceived himself above a tunnel of even greater darkness than that in which he traveled. This new tunnel seemed to be lined with dark fur, promising warmth, and the diamond tips of the fur glittered and beckoned like stars.

Yes, he thought. I should go there, where there is warmth and stars and good, sweet air to breathe . . . .

It seemed to him that he drifted nearer this place of warmth and stars, and he was content.

Suddenly a flare of living fire crossed the darkness and the moment was lost-he was drifting upward, toward lightening blackness and the pain that cut at him like crystalline knives . . . .

MIRI HAD DONE
what she could with water and a makeshift bandage torn from her shirt. The pellet had entered and exited cleanly, barely nicking a lung. With a medkit, he would have mended without trouble in a couple of days. But with only water and cloth, he would die. There was no way to stop the slow, stubborn flow of blood.

Wearily, she rubbed a bloody hand across her cheek and used her damp scarf to dab at the gash across his face. Not a serious wound, though it would have scarred-she killed that thought instantly.

His brows twitched, and she froze as he passed a tongue across dry lips. "Who?"

"Miri."

"Not dead?" His lashes fluttered, as if he were struggling to lift their great weight.

"Not yet," she told him, somehow keeping her voice light and easy. Gently, she brushed the hair from his eyes. "You got a little beat up, though. Just lie there and rest, accazi? Don't try to talk. We'll talk later, after you rest."

He had won the battle with his lashes and was watching her face, his green eyes lucid. "Poor liar, Miri."

She sighed and shook her head. "Think I'd be better, wouldn't you? Guess I ain't practiced enough lately."

Something flickered across his face-a smile, perhaps; it was gone before she was certain. "Is there any water?"

She helped him drink from the second pitcher, the already-soaked bandage absorbing more than he swallowed, and eased him back. He captured her hand and wove their fingers clumsily together, then closed his eyes and lay still, so she thought he'd passed out.

"Where?"

She sighed. "Juntavas ship."

"Forgive me . . . ."

"Only if you forgive me," she snapped. "I didn't go back to the pod. Useless damn thing to do. Can't pilot it."

"I know." He paused, and she saw the ghost of the ghost of a smile. "Miscalculation . . . .."

She was wondering how to answer this when the lock jiggled. Rolling, she was on her feet between Val Con and the door when it slid open.

"How's the boyfriend, Sergeant?" Borg Tanser stepped cautiously into the room, medkit in one hand, pellet gun in the other.

"What's it to you?"

"Boss wants both of you alive," Tanser said. "New rules. Was just you. Seems Scout Commander Val Con yos'Phelium owns some stock now, too." He threw the box in a sharp underhand, and she caught it without a flinch.

"Well, whaddya waiting for, Sergeant?" He waved the gun. "Patch him up!"

THE PILOT BLINKED
at the screen, swore, and upped mag. The big asteroid-the Clutch vessel-was behaving in a most peculiar manner, stuttering across the screen, phasing in, phasing out-in, out, in, out-going somewhere . . . .

Gone.

Tommy rubbed his eyes and hit the inship, demanding strong black coffee, on the bounce.

Then he looked back at the screen. Gone, all right.

Sighing, he cleared the board and began to run check calibrations. It seemed like a good idea.

JEFFERSON GAVE
A couple of minutes' frowning thought to the newest message from the boss before keying in the relay to Tanser, adding a rider that he should hang where he was until things were settled. It didn't seem like a good time to be out of touch with each other.

SHIRTS WERE PROVIDED
, as was a pad and blanket for the bed, and the menuboard supplied Miri with a hot meal. Val Con had passed out sometime during her ministrations with the medkit and hadn't come round yet. She carried her second mug of coffee over and sat on the edge of the bed, watching him breathe.

His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep; his breathing was no longer labored or shallow. The pulse that beat at the base of his throat was a little rickety, but hardly dangerous-nothing a day's rest wouldn't cure.

It had taken her over an hour to stop the bleeding from the pellet wounds, with her sweating and swearing, and Tanser holding the gun and snarling at her not to botch the job.

She'd had a go at patching the gash on his face. The pipe had just missed his eye, slicing diagonally across the high line of the right cheek. She'd done her best; the scar would be even, anyway, and it would fade in time from angry red to pale gold.

His lashes fluttered and his eyes were open, his wide mouth curving in a soft smile. He moved his hand to touch her knee.

"What are you thinking?"

She blinked. "That I love you," she said and dropped her hand over his. "Stupid damn thing, but what're you gonna do?"

"Accept it?" he guessed. Then he said more softly, "I may now tell you the same-that I love you-and you will believe me?"

"Yeah," she said, staring, "I guess so." She laughed. "Saving me from my lust to keep me for my love? Melodrama, Star Captain!"

"Scout Commander is sufficient," he murmured, shifting slightly. "How does one obtain dinner here?"

She finished her coffee and grinned at him. "One tells the nurse-that's me-that one is hungry. Then one is served something healthy. Like soup."